Chocolate Liqueurs
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Oneshot. "Winry Rockbell had a guilty secret." EdWin, spoilers for all the manga/Brotherhood.


**Author's Note: This is pretty much the definition of a plot bunny. BANG out of nowhere, I got this metaphor in my mind, and I just _had_ to write it down and flesh it out. I think it was sparked by some random fic where it talked about how glad Winry was whenever Ed would have to come back to get his automail fixed. It was all light and fluffy-happy, but I wondered what it would be like if such a thought took a darker turn. When I got to the end of this, I went back and read Chapter 108 again to make sure I'd got the essentials right and...oh man. Normally I think of Royai as the most powerful romance ever, but...wow. Every time I go back to that last scene, it makes my heart throb.**

Winry Rockbell had a guilty secret.

It was dark and luscious, like a chocolate liqueur. She sank her teeth into the sweet, soft shell, and then the sharp tang exploded in her mouth, leaving her reeling and wanting more. And so she dipped her hand into the box again, and again, and again, till the wrappers littered the floor around her feet and she realized she was still empty. She couldn't let anyone find out the truth, for what would they think of her then? So she crumpled the wrappers in one hand, hid the box behind her back, and tried to look innocent, though her fingers were sticky and the guilty chocolate outlined her greedy lips.

The truth was, she wanted Edward to get hurt. When she heard that he had gotten in a fight, ruined his automail, was now in the hospital, and could you please make the trip out here...for a moment a fierce, irrational pleasure would shoot through every nerve, warming her body as sure as the rush of alcohol. But then it would seep away, and she would feel worse than ever. How could she be _happy_ that Edward was hurt, that he'd gotten himself into such trouble that even her hard work on his automail couldn't keep him from harm?

But wounds and broken automail meant his return. The only time he and Alphonse ever came back home was when his automail broke down. It irked her that she was his last resort, that he didn't seem to even think about her except when he didn't know how to handle his automail, but in the end she didn't mind so much because it meant she could _see_ him again. She could lay him down on the table and memorize every new scar, every dip and rise of his muscles that moved so smoothly beneath his skin. She could count the little hairs at the back of his neck, beneath his braid. She could store up these mental pictures, so when he was gone on his endless journeys, she could pull out the little shoebox in her mind and gaze for hours at the snapshot she'd taken of the tiny bits of stubble he'd missed in his clumsy left-handed shaving.

She indulged herself as the years passed on, taking more and more until she felt sick, and then empty. How could she call this love, of any sort? She didn't love him. She was infatuated with the way he made her feel, obsessed with the possibility of him looking up at her, inebriated with the sound of his voice when he said her name. She was nothing but a greedy addict, holding out as best she could till her next fix. And it was slowly killing her.

At first she tried to deny it to herself, drowning out these dark insinuations by yelling at Edward and clobbering him over the head. But the more times she did this, the more she knew she was just fooling herself. She needed to pull the plug, face the withdrawal, and stop living for herself. She was just selfish, greedy, and completely unworthy of the love she craved from him.

She realized, sitting up late into the night and waiting anxiously for him to wake up after yet another reckless escapade of his, that she didn't _want_ him to love her this way. If he loved her when all she wanted was for him to get himself beaten up this badly so she could see him, rather than wanting what was best for _him..._what kind of man would that make him? And how could _she_ love _him_ like that?

By the time Edward _did_ open his eyes that time, she was in tears. "Don't do this to yourself anymore," she begged him, while he blinked stupidly up at her. "I want you to be safe, okay?"

"O-Okay," Edward faltered, awkwardly patting the top of her head.

For the first time in years, his touch didn't electrify her, didn't make her heart race, didn't leave her longing for him to touch her again as soon as his hand moved away. But for the first time in her life, she _loved_ him.

After that night, she threw herself into living for him. She stopped thinking about how much pleasure warmed her heart when he was near, instead doing what she could to help him. It wasn't much – it would _never_ be enough – but she did what she could. She gave herself into the hands of the man who had killed her parents, knowing all too well she could end up just like them. But it was for _Edward._ She worked hard to learn the techniques of automail manufacture, to build the lightest and strongest limbs that Edward could ever ask for, so he could run and transmute and fight without having to worry about them giving way. She even worked on learning how to bake the perfect apple pie, so he could enjoy life with his brother when they got Alphonse's body back to normal. This wasn't about her anymore. It was Edward, it was _all_ Edward.

And so, on the day Edward awkwardly said, _Give__ me__ half __of __your __life, __and__ I'll __give __you__ half __of __mine,_ she could say without hesitation, "Half? You can have all of it."


End file.
